


French Letters, or, five times John found writing on his penis and one time Sherlock didn't

by redscudery



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: 221B Ficlet, 5+1 Things, Boys Kissing, Crack, First Time, Fluff and Crack, I Don't Even Know, Irene Ships It, Irene is sneaky, M/M, Masturbation, Maybe - Freeform, Mycroft is suspicious, Mycroft's Meddling, Oral Sex, Penises, Resolved Sexual Tension, Sex Tapes, Unresolved Sexual Tension, absolutely no relevance in canon, with letters on
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-08
Updated: 2014-03-08
Packaged: 2018-01-13 12:50:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,330
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1226977
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/redscudery/pseuds/redscudery
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Someone is writing words on John's penis. Who, and why?</p>
            </blockquote>





	French Letters, or, five times John found writing on his penis and one time Sherlock didn't

**Author's Note:**

> I have to thank the Antidiogenes group for this idea. 
> 
> Thanks also specifically to onethousandhurrahs for "Hello, soldier" and "come at once."

        It takes a while for John to notice the first time. When he actually does see the words “Hello soldier” on his penis, he’s already been to the loo twice. The letters, in what looks like black eye pencil, are smudged but legible. 

He doesn’t quite know what to think. His slightly stunned first thought is that it doesn’t look like Sherlock’s handwriting, but how like one’s handwriting could letters on a penis be? A living penis, that is, not a dead one, because of course writing on a corpse’s penis would be easi... 

Then he shakes his head. Time for another cup of tea. 

He doesn’t wipe the words off yet, although he is fairly sure he’s not going to tell Sherlock about it. Too close to home. 

He hadn’t had it last night, though they’d come in late. He knew that because despite the unreasonable hour he’d ended up having a wank: two hours crammed up next to Sherlock in nearly full shipping container at the docks and John had been extremely keyed up. 

That meant, though, that someone has to have done it when he was sleeping. Sherlock is the most probable suspect. The handwriting is an obstacle, though less of one than the fact that Sherlock would never be so obvious. 

Would he? John spends a lot of time thinking about it, baffled.

__________

The second time, he notices right when he gets up. The words are smaller and smudgier. John makes it out: Share The Wealth. He stretches his penis and has a second look. That’s definitely what it says. He smiles, though he’s disturbed nonetheless.

If it’s not Sherlock, though, there is really only one plausible suspects if he lays aside the minuscule probability of it being a stranger: Mycroft.

He doesn’t quite gag at the idea of Mycroft - or one of his flunkies - sneaking in to the flat and touching him while he sleeps, because he’s a doctor, after all, and he’s seen some terrible things. However, he wishes he’d never thought of it, because now he’s half-afraid to close his eyes. Also, the message is  flattering,  which makes that scenario even more disturbing.

It doesn’t help that Sherlock has been ferreting nervously around the flat all week. There’s been a slight lull in cases, and his access to the lab has been curtailed by Molly’s summer vacation. Sherlock’s bound to deduce what’s going on, and, given his lack of boundaries, it’ll only be a matter of time before he’ll demand to see the evidence up close. 

 

John knows he doesn’t need Sherlock’s face in his crotch. That is, he knows…no. He stops thinking and goes to take a bath.

 

__________

Two days later, John’s having a slash in an alley, having been catapulted out of bed and set to running after criminals before breakfast, when he sees the third message. It’s initials today: JW + SH, in lipstick. Sticky lipstick. 

It strikes him, as he tries to wipe the letters away with the sleeve of his jumper, that someone is having a great deal of fun at his expense. He’d like to have a couple of words with the person who’s doing this. Could it really be Mycroft? Despite his crack about “happy announcements” on the night they met, John can’t really feature him stooping to meddle in this type of affair - or non-affair, as it were. 

 

“Bloody Mycroft. Useless.” John’s thankful he’s just zipped up.

 

“What now?”

 

“I need him and he’s not there. Gone to Tanzania or something, the cake-loving wanker.”

 

“When?”

 

“Anthea said Tuesday, but it was day before yesterday.”

 

So not Mycroft himself. John is more relieved than he expected.

 

“There’s lipstick on your jumper.” John pulls his arm away but Sherlock grabs him by the wrist and yanks. They stumble together, John’s forehead narrowly escaping contact with Sherlock’s chin. 

 

John looks up to remonstrate, but Sherlock’s lips are only inches away. 

 

“Sorry.” 

 

“S’okay.”

 

And then Sherlock bends his head and, improbably, perfectly, their lips brush.

 

__________

“Please fuck.” Lipstick again. John almost laughs at that one. It’s a measure of what his life has become that he’s now more interested in the message -the potential of the message- than its provenance.

“John. John!” Sherlock’s frustrated voice echoes through the flat. John pulls the sheet over himself as quickly as he can, but it’s not enough; Sherlock bursts into his room in time to see everything John’s been trying to hide.

 

“John, why is there writing on your penis?”

 

“Fucking hell, Sherlock!”

 

“Lipstick. That’s lipstick,” Sherlock stops talking, his brain clearly ticking over. He looks at John sceptically. John’s sure he only imagines the flicker of lust in Sherlock’s eyes because it’s mirrored in his own. Sherlock is shirtless, his pyjama bottoms hanging loose, held up only by that impossible arse. 

 

“You didn’t do it.”

 

“I bloody well know that, Sherlock.”

 

“Let me see it.” Sherlock reaches for the sheet.

 

“Not likely.” John clutches it close. 

 

“Don’t be so prudish. Show me.” 

 

“I’m not being prudish. I’ll take a picture. Just, just, get out of here. You’re in my personal space.”

 

He really is in John’s personal space, insistent and so very warm. It suddenly becomes so very important that John keep covered. 

 

“Very nice, John.” With a pointed glance, Sherlock crosses the room to inspect the baseboards.

 

__________

This time, John checks as soon as he wakes up. His morning erection has “Come at once” written on it in what appears to be felt-tip. 

Well, if you say so, he thinks, and curls his hand around it. Time enough to worry about this new message once he’d gotten off. It’s been too many days of rushed mornings and frustrating moments, and the feel of his hand is a relief. 

 

“Irene.”

 

Sherlock’s voice is husky from the corner of the room. 

 

In that clear moment between shock and shame, John can see that if he keeps doing what he wants to do right now, it’ll bring him what has become what he has wanted more than anything over the last year or two. 

 

He already feels his orgasm coming, coiling up within him and in four, five smooth strokes, he’s there. Sherlock watches, rapt and unmoving.

 

John lies back on the bed, enjoying the hormone rush and waiting for Sherlock to do something. 

 

“It was…is Irene.” 

 

“Makes sense. Why?”

 

Now Sherlock pauses. 

 

“This. I think.”

 

“What do you mean ‘this’, Sherlock?”

 

“You and I. Together.”

 

“You’re awfully far away from me for someone who wants to be together.”

 

Sherlock’s mouth twists into a contrary pout that John wants to kiss away. 

 

“Come here, you bonehead.”

__________

“There is nothing written on your penis this morning, John,” Sherlock grumbles. 

John’s head is thrown back on the pillow, hands gripping the headboard, and he can only exhale sympathetically. 

 

“It’s a shame, really. Perhaps I could have pretended not to figure it out. I wonder what she’d have done next.” He licks John’s cock from root to tip, almost meditatively.

 

“Ssshhherloock!” 

 

“Your protests are specious, John. You prefer delayed gratification.” He licks around the head of the glans, slowly, and John arches up towards him. 

 

“Mmmfh.”

 

“Mmmfh.” Sherlock echoes this, and the vibrations of his voice against John’s skin are torture. It’s only a small relief, though, when he takes John into his mouth completely; he starts to suck, but teasingly. Sherlock insinuates his hand between John’s legs, stroking the tops of his thighs, light and tender.

 

John can’t help but writhe, pushing up towards Sherlock’s hand and mouth, begging wordlessly. Sherlock loosens his mouth even more, until the plump head of John’s cock is only between his lips, then, finally, takes him all in. His mouth is insistent now, and his thumb finds the sensitive spot behind John’s testicles. 

 

Sherlock, oddly, is in his element.

 

John is stretched taut, urgent, and has never been so happy. 

 

 

 

Up on the ceiling, unnoticed by them both, a very small camera buzzes. 

 


End file.
